Waiting For My Son to Come Home
प्रकाशित मिति : जेष्ठ २३, २०७७ शुक्रबार
- Sugam Gautam
I would massage Dilip tomorrow. Old Gauri had advised me to do so. It will make Dilip more healthy. Get a mustard oil from the market when you return home from your work. Ah… get him warm blankets. It’s getting colder than before.” Gyan Kumari, in a talk with her husband, had demanded a list of things for their newborn son. It had been a long wait for the couple. After 15 years of marriage, a son got added to the family of two, bringing bagful happiness
Like all mothers, Gyan Kumari took care of her baby in the best way. Although she had no experience of baby-caring before, she did not let her son suffers from anything. Every morning when her son woke up, she grinned at him, and it lasted for hours. She could spend all mornings staring at him. Her fingers never feel tired, rubbing his chubby cheeks until the ocean of tears flowed off her eyes. A son would snigger each time when he felt the gentle touch of her mother. There was an unconditional love between the duo of mom and son. She perceived like she had owned every happiness of the world. He was their only child, their asset and their hope when they would turn old.
The fall had ended, Gyan Kumari was going through her laboring month. The days were becoming hard. By the end of her belly, she was feeling extreme stress. It was difficult for 39 years old Gyan Kumari to carry the baby. In her yard, she was laying on the bedstead by the adjacent, small wall to priest Hari ‘s house. She heard Gauri: wife of Hari, screeching. The lonely Gauri’s asthma resulted in cough, had become worse. Listening to this painful noise from the neighboring yard, Gyan kumari solaced herself moving her hand on her big, fertile tummy. Her heart was filled with unseen fear.
Gyan Kumari had come to this house when she was wedded with Hemant. She had been watching Gauri and Hari living in that wide house. Their only son had moved to Australia after completing his CA. He had got married to an Australian lecturer. The priest’s house had every blessing on the earth. They had accommodated two servants. As the years slipped, Gauri had driven all the servants out of her house. The people had preached the notion that Gauri had become proud and hated the poor. Gyan Kumari was now the only visitor to them because she could see the dim color of disappointment in Gauri’s eyes instead of the presumed anger and vanity. They had invited their son to meet them often, and he had always comforted them by saying that he would come in next season when his project would end. Gyan Kumari had never seen him. Only big pictures of a nice man, a fair girl, and two kids were hanging on the wall in Gauri’s room that she had seen.
Dilip was insisting on getting a new ball as he had thrown his paper ball in anger and wept bitterly in the morning. It was an utter disturbance for Hemant who could not see him weeping. Unfolding his sleeves after dressing his hair and mustaches, he had rushed toward him. Picking him in his arms, he was wiping his tear, and assuring that he will bring him a new ball in the evening. He had asked Gyan Kumari to give him the amount she had embedded in her sari around her waist. Nodding her head, she had handed over him the 200 rupees she had saved during this week. “I will bring you a beautiful ball. Which color of the ball do you like to play with?” he asked Dilip, kissing him. With love-filled bright eyes, Gyan Kumari was looking at them. She was happy that she had already been saving some amount to meet the demands of “the apple of their eyes”. “Blue ball & bat in yellow” that was how in broken words he had answered. Gyan Kumari sensed the smell, omelet in the pan had burnt meanwhile. She turned off the stove immediately and put the pan on the table.
Wiping with her saree’s draping, the priest’s wife was hanging new pictures of his son and his kids on the wall their son had sent for them via social media; and Hemant had got those printed for the poor old couple. Gauri had also given beautifully wrapped candies, opening a golden box that her son had sent for Dilip as thankfulness for Hemant and Gyan’s favors. But old Gauri never let Dilip have the full box. Instead, she would give him one candy daily to assure his visit to their barren house. Kumari was looking at the pictures in despair when she discovered that Dilip had suddenly uttered, “I want to go to the garden where these fair kids in pictures were playing.” Gyan Kumari experienced that her heart was thwacked right there in her chest. She would never let Dilip go there in the land of fairs. Her big, black eyes were filled with extreme fear and tears. She had abruptly dragged Dilip holding his arm, saying, “My food is burning in the pot, maybe.” Gauri was surprised a little without understanding much. She had continued to hang those pictures on the wall.
The evening bells were ringing in the temple, on small mountains. Evil mourning echoed in the air. Gyan Kumari was mixing rice in the milk for Dilip, who was actively playing with his small puppy under the tree. Gyan Kumari experienced a dry-heave for her sense of anxiety. She listened to Gauri coughing violently. “The priest, Hari has arrived perhaps,” Gyan Kumari thought. The sound of coughing and breath-whistling in Gauri’s chest had replaced the dying noise of bells in far away temple. Since when Dilip had expressed that he wanted to visit “the garden of fairs,” Gyan kumari had limited her frequent visits to Hari’s. Relying on her sixth sense, she decided to see old Gauri. Hari, with the help of Hemant, had taken Gauri into her room. Only dying whistling was roaring in a sad environment. The setting sun had thrown its amber rays on the gloomy walls of the room. Her 70 years old face had also turned pale; her grey hairs were stuck on her sweating forehead. Suddenly the roar had turned into a dim whispering. Her eyes had widened, looking at those golden framed pictures hanging on the wall. Following her eyes, Gyan kumari looked at those pictures in which people were happy and smiling. She turned her face instantaneously and looked at the dead face of poor Gauri.
The funeral was arranged. Her son had arrived to see the dead, wrinkled face of his mother. He was a tall, well mannered, impressive, but quiet man. He had to go back to Australia during the week. He couldn’t take the old priest with him. “Why don’t you go with me, father? You will have a peaceful life there with me. The weather is very nice there.” he was insisting in a formal tone. Hari had told him that he would not go with him. His son had insisted none more. Instead, the impressive man had advised Hemant to look after the house and pack Hari’s luggage.
The only bulb was lighted in the verandah of Hemant’s small house. The old priest’s house had been covered with a blanket of darkness. Dilip had slept early. He had been talking about the son of dead Gauri and his big car around the day. Kumari was leaning over her hearth, folding her arms around her knees. Hemant was looking sadly at her face. Both of them were dumb. Only mournful silence was prevailing. Gyan Kumari had seen lonely Hari, going with his son, in a big black car. He had been dropped into Kathmandu’s old-age residence by his son; it was called ‘care center.’ Small, silver pearls dropped on her cheeks. Her long black hair braid was hanging sadly at her back. Heartbroken, Hemant was looking at her. He wanted her to speak something. “Dilip will never go to school..!” Gyan kumari sobbed. Hemant could not disagree but kept on staring at her face. Before leaving his seat by the hearth, he wiped her tears with his hands and tapped her dull cheeks.